


Diversion

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of crude and fragmented conversation there's honesty to be found as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diversion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

He's aware that Sherlock is laughing at him, at the disgusted faces he pulls has he guzzles down another class of far too fizzy cola. Any drink would do but the free bottle that came with their takeaway order is the closest thing to hand. Anything to get rid of the awful taste of some very, _very_ , good cocaine rolling down the back of his throat. It happens every time, enough that he wonders if there's something wrong with his airways or if Sherlock experiences it too, and simply betrays no response. Sherlock does thinner lines anyway, prefers to do corners, so any trickle down isn't half as large or prolonged. He also doesn't rub the residual powder on his gums for some reason and instead runs his tongue along the tip of the card to catch the last grains, and probably to crudely remove at least some of evidence.

“You should be use to it by now.”  
“Bullshit.”

Sherlock smirks. Whatever cocaine does to him, it does it quietly. Sherlock's arrogance increases of course but he tends to become more silently, insolently, smug about it. It's enough to annoy anyone, even when they're experiencing the same themselves. Luckily the effect on the pair of them is similar when it comes to silence. Sherlock chain-smokes on nights like this, and in that compulsion, Gregory has something to hold over him. Cocaine does, most definitely, make Gregory just as arrogant, but it's a lazy arrogance that has him sprawling in his seat, hand twitching for the cigarette that he hasn't yet decided to allow himself. His self-control in that regard never wavers, unless he wants it to.

“You're a shit dealer.”  
“You can blow me later if you want to make it more authentic.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“Later, sweetheart.”

They both laugh. He isn't a dealer any more than Sherlock would trade sex for cocaine. Neither of them are _addicts_ after all. They're just comfortable, professional, recreational users. Just like the vast majority of London. Neither of them have ever had any official business with dealers anyway. Sherlock always got his from a friend of a friend who had a dealer they could call. Gregory gets his from a man who knows a man who works in the labs that handle the stocktake after any major drugs bust. Gregory doesn't pay a penny but he is careful to make sure to repay a few small favours. Sherlock's friends always use to know the best dealers and he only ever paid forty pounds a gram. Nowadays he pays nothing, though he does occasionally bring around a decent bottle of scotch when they have one of their evenings.

“What would you do if you got called in now?”  
“I'd tell them to fuck off.”

That's a lie that they both understand easily enough. They both have their own quick and crude solutions anyway. Sherlock carries a box of snuff and a pinch or two would quickly coat the more visible part of his nostrils. Gregory, on the other hand, really isn't fond of using Sherlock's snuff, though he's had to in the past. These days Vicks have been ingenuous enough to produce a nasal gel, used to combat colds, that will allow him to clear his nose fast enough. As for the rest of it, Sherlock is arrogant anyway and Gregory has enough self-control not to show it too obviously.

“We could...”  
“Do me another line and I'll think about it.”

Sherlock is, of course, angling for sex, not because of the cocaine but because every now and again he does allow himself some human weakness. Gregory could do without it. He doesn't mind exactly, it's just that he'd rather be clear-headed if they do. He appreciates both distractions equally and sees no reason to combine them. He doesn't even like having sex drunk when he thinks about it. Sherlock knows all this of course, and the fat line he's busy grinding out suggests that he's not really in the mood anyway. The more Gregory takes the less likely they are to do anything than fall asleep where they sit. They might make it into the same bed, in which case Gregory will fall asleep with Sherlock whispering filth into his ear, and making a half-hearted attempt to grope him, but if they finish that second gram as well, they'll both be out cold in a few hours anyway.

“You'd let my brother fuck you.”  
“Well, yeah.”

Gregory doesn't elaborate as he bends over the white, powdery, line, with the rolled takeaway receipt in hand. It goes without saying that, having already slept with Mycroft, he'd readily do it again. There's something unrepentantly sadistic about Mycroft after all, something that reeks of corruption and the inevitable result of absolute power, something that Gregory is horribly, fatally, attracted to. Mycroft is the supreme villain, the charming bastard who breaks your heart and destroys your world, and Gregory can't find it in himself to resist.

“Why is it that the crueller he becomes, the more you want him?”  
“I guess I'm just not a very nice man.”  
“No, you're not. You're just as bad as he is. You're a pair of manipulative liars.”  
“Thanks.”

Which is sort of, maybe, more or less true. He may not quite have Mycroft's reach but he can manage people just as well. Mostly he manages people for the sake of order, for the good of the country. He's an officer of the law and his role is to maintain order amongst the populous after all. Sometimes, rarely, in the pre-dawn silence, he might even consider it in terms of justice but he doesn't do that often. He isn't a very good man and some superstitious part of him hesitates to invoke justice too openly, for fear that the lie will bring down some unholy judgement on his head. He believes in justice, and not just the justice of codified law, but he's also a little afraid of it, of the possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, one day it will strike him down for his own unacknowledged crimes.

“Boring.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Justice doesn't exist.”  
“What do you believe in then?”  
“Entropy.”

It's a typical Sherlock answer, and despite the sardonic smile that goes with it, it's also an honest one. The only thing that Sherlock ever seems to genuinely believe in is constant motion, the pandemonium and discord of humanity. The only thing that Mycroft seems to believe in is himself. 'The cause' as Gregory's started to term it in his own head, and the cause doesn't seem to be a higher ideal, a vision for humanity, the cause really, truly, does seem to be Mycroft. Not that Gregory knows what that means for anyone else and it's not as if Sherlock seems to give a damn.

“You don't believe in justice either. You believe in order.”  
“Logic and reason out of the chaos?”  
“Precisely.”  
“Well, at least that's something.”

Sherlock's laughter is warning enough to have Gregory reaching for the scotch. In this kind of mood, Sherlock can go on for hours expounding upon his, and Mycroft's, theories as to why humanity really aren't worth the effort. It's not that Gregory disagrees half the time either, but he'd rather not go into it now, not when Sherlock is only doing it to provoke him. He doesn't want to end the night yelling obscenities at the man he has every intention of taking to bed.

“You know what I'm going to say anyway.”

Sherlock grins and hands over his glass. Gregory sighs and just like that the tension dissipates. They will carry on drinking of course, and finish off that second gram, and then, in the early hours of the morning they'll tumble into bed together and just sleep.

When they do, finally, fall into bed together, they're half in and out of their clothing, exhausted and somehow still relaxed. They don't talk then and instead just lie pressed together, waiting for unconsciousness to blot out the night. Despite the crudeness of their earlier conversation, the arrangement of their limbs betrays a certain tenderness between them and the curve of Sherlock's arm, curled around Gregory from behind, always leads to their intertwined fingers.


End file.
